


Perspective

by MusicalLuna



Category: Hulk (2003), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Incredible Hulk (2008)
Genre: Bruce Banner & Tony Stark Friendship, Bruce Banner Angst, Bruce Banner Feels, Bruce Banner Has Issues, Bruce Banner Needs a Hug, Bruce Banner-centric, Canon Divergence - Post-Avengers (2012), Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Gen, Not Canon Compliant, Not Marvel Cinematic Universe Phase Two Compliant, POV Bruce Banner, Post-Avengers (2012), Team Bonding, fan mail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 10:22:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13499946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MusicalLuna/pseuds/MusicalLuna
Summary: Tony shakes out the piece of paper inside and clears his throat. “Dear Hulk,” he reads, “You’re green. Green is my favorite color. I love you. Love, Gina.”The fullness in Bruce’s throat only gets worse when Tony gives him a look over the top of the letter as if to say,How do you like them apples?





	Perspective

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ivory_leigh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivory_leigh/gifts).



> this is for @ivory-leigh with special thanks to nightwalker for her help with the idea
> 
> [Translated into Russian by spaceinthecage.](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fficbook.net%2Freadfic%2F5564160&t=MzQwYzQ1OTgxNjZjZDhmOTdiOGQwYjM3ZmUzZDE3Y2NmZWU5YTQ4MixORmtQV2pyZQ%3D%3D&b=t%3Ac_BJa7l9GPpI7Lipa8FXAw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fmusicalluna.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F161721478865%2Fi-forgot-to-post-this-spaceinthecage-translated&m=1)

In the weeks following what they’re calling The Battle of New York, Bruce settles into the Tower with an incredible ease.

The floor Tony designed for him is shockingly well-suited to his tastes and needs considering how Tony likes to claim he’s not a team-player. Bruce suspects each floor is equally well-designed and perhaps that’s why they’re all able to slip into a routine so quickly.

It feels like something that was missing has slotted into place and Bruce can tell just by looking at the others’ faintly bewildered expressions when they look around at the space they share that they feel the same.

Still, Bruce never looks toward Harlem.

He’s…content right now, but it’s only a matter of time before Ross decides to try again or his teammates are reminded that he’s a barely-restrained monster, not their friend.

Even Natasha seems to have forgotten, despite the fact that she still can’t walk on the ankle  _he_  caused her to injure.

“Knock knock, anybody home?”

Bruce startles, Tony’s voice coming from right behind him.

He covers his heart and turns to glare. “Are you still prodding at my fault lines?”

Tony raises his eyebrows. “A) You have no faults, Brucie, B) of course I am, and C) it wasn’t actually on purpose this time, I called your name like ten times and you didn’t answer.”

Bruce gives him a wry look. “So you thought you’d just come in anyway?”

Tony gasps softly, like Bruce has mortally wounded him. “You could have been bleeding on the floor for all I knew.”

Trying not to smile, Bruce gets to his feet and brushes off his pants before turning a look on Tony. “No, I couldn’t’ve.”

Tony looks back. “Nah, probably not.”

“Why are you really here?”

Tony’s shoulders hop in a too-casual little shrug. “Just wanted to see what you were up to.”

“Mhm.” Bruce waits.

He watches in amusement as Tony starts to wander, nudging anything within reach with his fingertips. He fiddles with a lampshade and moves a coaster, fans out a stack of books on one of the side tables so he can see portions of the covers. Finally, he says, “So have you gone through your fanmail?”

Bruce is surprised and the question stings a little. Tony teases but he’s careful to avoid rubbing salt in Bruce’s wounds. It hurts to have him do it finally.

Swallowing, Bruce says as evenly as he can, “I don’t get fanmail.”

Tony looks up, frowning. “What? Of course you do.”

Bruce’s hands clench into fists and he manages to choke out, “It’s not funny, Tony—”

“I’m not joking,” Tony replies, still surprised and incongruously serious. “At least, not unless I’m hallucinating the bag of mail in the living room that’s starting to overflow.”

When Bruce just stares at him, Tony beckons him with two fingers and walks off.

Not sure what else to do, Bruce follows.

They ride the elevator up to the communal floor and Bruce hesitantly follows Tony out into the main space, feeling like he’s being set up for one of those prank shows or something. Steve is lying on the couch with a book and he glances up at their entrance. “Hey, fellas.”

“Your shoes are on my couch,” Tony says, in lieu of a greeting and Steve flushes and swings his feet off the couch, sitting up.

“It’s our couch.”

“ _Our_  couch,” Tony amends agreeably. Then he waves a hand with a flourish. “See?”

Sure enough, sitting in the corner next to a few other half-full bags of mail labeled with the others’ names is a sack labeled BRUCE.

Bruce isn’t quite sure what he feels at the sight of it, but it fills his throat. He shakes his head after a moment. “I don’t think I want to know what’s in those letters.”

“Yes, you do,” Steve says, voice gentle and earnest. “I’ve gotten some really nice ones from kids in Brooklyn.”

Bruce takes a step back and shakes his head again. “Mine won’t be like that.”

“Wrong,” Tony replies and reaches into the bag. The envelope he pulls out is already open and it’s got a rainbow sticker on it. Tony shakes out the piece of paper inside and clears his throat. “Dear Hulk,” he reads, “You’re green. Green is my favorite color. I love you. Love, Gina.”

The fullness in Bruce’s throat only gets worse when Tony gives him a look over the top of the letter as if to say,  _How do you like them apples?_

“It really says that?” Bruce croaks.

“Look for yourself,” Tony says and turns the letter around, holding it out.

Bruce accepts it, hand only trembling a little.

The letter is written in green crayon and Bruce stares at it, reading it over and over.  _Green is my favorite color. I love you._

_I love you._

Tony is watching him, expression soft, when Bruce looks back up. “They can’t all be like this.”

“Can and are,” Tony replies, breaking eye contact and crouching to take a few more out of the bag. “The shitty ones go elsewhere.” He pulls a folded up piece of paper out of a pink envelope and peels it open. He smiles. “Look at that.”

What he shows Bruce is a drawing of a green blob with an orange scribble on top of the head. A bit of the green blob is separated and there’s a green circle at the end with a bunch of green lines extending upward. Those are topped with big loops of purple and red and pink.

“Is that the Hulk with flowers?” Steve says and Bruce can hear him smiling. It is unmistakably that, even crude as it is. “How about that.”

Bruce takes a few steps forward and takes that one, too.  _Ann_  is scrawled in one of the corners in huge letters. One of the ens is backwards.

Tony starts reading again. “Dear Mr. Dr. Banner, When I grow up I am going to be a scientist. My girl friend thinks I should be a fire man. I have decided to get a new girl friend. Your fan, Trey.” By the time he’s finished, Tony and Steve are both laughing. “You’re a homewrecker, Banner,” Tony says between fits of giggles.

Still smiling, Steve joins Tony by the bag, picking one out himself. While he opens it, Bruce sits down on the floor next to Tony to get into the letters himself. The bag is bulging, there must be hundreds of them.

“Dear Hulk, Do you know Santa? You are both famous, so I think you do. Tell him I want an Xbox for Christmas. Love, Greg.”

“Oh my god,” Tony says, delighted. He elbows Bruce. “Hey, can you get me in with Santa, too?”

“Shut up,” Bruce says, but he’s smiling.

“There are a lot of terrible things about being famous,” Steve says, carefully folding the letter and putting it back into the envelope, “but this is one thing I really get a kick out of.”

“Aw, hey, are you guys doing fanmail without us?”

Bruce twists around to see Clint and Natasha on their way in. Clint has an entire gallon of ice cream under one arm and he’s eating right out of it.

“Clint, how many times have I gotta tell you, use a bowl,” Steve says, voice thick with exasperation.

“This is a bowl. A disposable bowl,” Clint replies.

“Give it up,” Natasha advises Steve. “He’s hopeless.” She folds her legs and sits next to Steve, bumping her hip against his as she settles. It makes Steve duck his head and smile, which is good to see. They’ve been fighting to get Steve to stop trying to draw lines between himself and them and it looks like it might finally be working.

“Here,” Tony says, putting a letter in Bruce’s hands. “Read this one.”

Bruce glances at him, but he’s still focused on the bag, so he takes it and pulls out the letter. This one is written on college rule notebook paper and the handwriting’s better. It looks like it was written by a middle or high schooler maybe. “Dear Dr. Banner,” Bruce reads, “I was…” His voice chokes off when he finishes the line.

_Dear Dr. Banner,_

_I was in Harlem in 2011. One corner in our apartment got knocked out when something smashed into it that night. It was my bedroom. It scared me a lot. I had nightmares after that night because I thought the green thing was going to come back._

_But then last month the aliens attacked. My mom and I were going to hide when I looked out the window and saw the big green thing again. One of the aliens was headed straight for our apartment and he grabbed it and smashed it on the ground._

_You are the big green thing I saw. You saved my apartment and my mom and me. You protected us and now I’m not scared anymore._

_Thank you,_

_Neil_

He’s clutching the letter so tightly it’s crumpled and Bruce reads it three more times before someone carefully extracts it from his grip and replaces it with another. He reads letter after letter from children and preteens and there are even a few from adults  _thanking_  him.

Bruce knows he’s breathing too shallowly, but what— _how—_

“God,” he croaks and his voice sounds wrecked, “they think the Hulk is a hero.”

Someone touches his knee.

“He  _is_ a hero,” Clint says quietly.

Bruce sucks in a sharp, wet inhalation, his vision blurring even as he stares down at a drawing of a brown haired man in glasses and a big green man in purple pants and a little boy in a red shirt holding hands.

Through their eyes, he doesn’t look like a monster at all.


End file.
